The fingers who disappeared you are slender.
They do not completely hide your face:
At the edges, more-than-hand
whose sentences are grown up and moved out.
Who told you that story?
Not your mother. Not your father.
Your features are a guesswork.
Origami in progress, re-folded as lines
you’ll store in a name-brand bottle
until you reappear.
You, doubled under the weight of laughter.
A whole person, not quite half.